


Sojourn

by LightOnLight



Category: The Kharkanas Trilogy - Steven Erikson, The Malazan Book of the Fallen - Steven Erikson
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Humiliation, Light Masochism, M/M, Porn With Plot, Self-Doubt, author is unreasonably mean to Silchas, characters being bad at feelings, post MBotF, small allusions to the Kharkanas Trilogy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23937106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightOnLight/pseuds/LightOnLight
Summary: Silchas travels to learn more of this new world he is unfamiliar with. In Darujhistan, he meets an old aquaintance who is just as bad at resolving feelings as he is.Brood/Silchas, pretty much pwp.
Relationships: Caladan Brood/Silchas Ruin
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	Sojourn

Darujhistan, the alleged pearl of Genabackis, or so he'd heard. Silchas looked at the city rising over the hills on the horizon and couldn't help likening it to the splendor of Kharkanas in her prime, finding it wanting.

_Perfect._

The city of azure fire felt like the perfect place for a relic like him. Dusty, yet self-important, hardly all that it was made out to be. Less hoary than him, though; Darujhistan was suffused with the spirit of this unfamiliar, modern world. Perhaps he could recapture lost time and find his balance once again.

While his nephew and ilk - _my brother's_ children _and_ grand children, _and- still so hard to believe, so long buried in that accursed yard..._ \- were working on returning grand Kharkanas to her full glory, he had become increasingly estranged from his ancient home. Too many gone and forgotten that had made it what it once was. In his darkest hours he wondered, if it could ever be what it was again, without his brothers.

Chasing the thought from his mind, he continued his journey. He had elected to travel on foot and alone, hoping the solitude would ease the restlessness that haunted him since…. well, if he was honest with himself -a rarity these days!- since his rebirth from the Azath. Tumultuous times following that event had enabled him to push feelings and confusion to the deepest recesses of his soul; a welcome diversion. _But now there is peace. And here you are, bemoaning that. Pathetic._

Maybe the world had moved on and neither needed, nor wanted the likes of ancient ascendants like him.

He had felt another presence long before the city came into view, a domineering signature of power he recognized despite the millenia having passed since their last meeting. A presence his mind inadvertently linked to Anomander.

Silchas had heard the tales of the  recent wars and who had led the host of former enemies \-  but the knowledge of his whereabouts had not prepared him for sensing  him this close .

He would have felt his approach, as well. Silchas was n 't sure if he was prepared for that particular meeting, but in the end power will always draw power and their paths would inevitably cross. He was already swept along by the pulse of it, couldn't have tur n ed and  gone another way even if he wanted to. 

_Weak. Not even trying to resist it, still leaning on that eleint blood, are you?_

Sighing, he made his way to the gate.

-

He traversed the city until sundown, watching the nobles, traders and thieves go about their daily business. Bold as the  latter were, none dared approach him, as if sensing the emanating aura of power around him.

Once he had found a sufficiently drab tavern to mirror his mood, he settled in for the night. His room was small and located in the furthest corner of the establishment, overlooking the backyard rather than the busy street. He had just begun to untie his pack, when he felt a surge of power vibrate in his bones. A small, humorless smile played across his lips. So the other had decided to get this over with sooner rather than later. Shouldering his pack again, Silchas made his way to the tap room.

There he stood, like an  indomitable  edifice, towering over the few other patrons: Caladan Brood, unchanged and ancient, radiating power. When he turned, he held a pitcher and two  goblets , nodding towards a shadowy corner of the room,  moving there without looking if Silchas would follow.

His smile was strained when he pulled out his chair and settled at the table.  What does one say after all th is time? _So, you watched my brother die. Did it hurt?_ He  thrust the thought away and drank deep, remaining silent.

“It's good to see you, Silchas,” Brood started after some contemplation and intent gazing into his cup. “Not many can claim to have risen from an Azath's grounds.”

“I am honored,” was his dry response. He drained his wine and refilled the goblet. “It's good to see some things always remain. I find unexpected joy in meeting you.”

The Warlord eased noticeably at his words, nodding to himself and settling more comfortably into his too-small chair. His words rung true, though, he realized. There was a connection between them, immediate and comfortable; just two hoary terrors navigating this world of short-lived humans. Silchas wondered if the people looking up to the warlord knew what he was. That, should he decide, he could end battles alone, destroying enemy armies and crushing mountains to dust. He supposed they didn't. 

Brood spoke up and drew him out of his contemplation, though he did not quite look at him when he said:  “ I see yo u are out exploring this world  that must still be unfamiliar to you . I am surprised to see you alone.  No taste for old or new friends to  share the journey ?”

_Buried the last of them in the wake of an eleint storm. Symbolically, as there was nothing left to put to the earth._ He said: “I have traveled a far-away continent in… winning company for some time. A change was in order, and so… now I am here.”  He shrugged, hoping it looked more nonchalant than it felt,  straining to change the subject .  The glint in Brood's eyes told him he was onto him,  but would play along nonetheless.  “What does a warlord do to pass the time when there is n o war?”

-

T hey talked long into the night, ordering pitcher after pitcher of wine, and Silchas had to admit he hadn't felt this comfortable in a while. This was familiar,  an Azathanai across from him too late at night while the world and all it's history was in flow outside .  He wondered if Grizzin Farl still walked the earth,  if he even still carried that name . He had half a mind to ask, but decided to let it lie.  The subject strained too close to the heart and b oth of them  delicately danced around t he  one  matter that hung between them like tapestry of raw pain.

He was thankful for the Azathanai indulging him. There was a warmth to the other that he coudln't quite place, though it may well have been the intoxication blurring his senses.

Bells passed and Silchas wasn't quite sure who staggered from their perch first, the pleasant jag of wine making him indifferent to the details. He only knew that when he left for his room, Brood followed closely behind.

-

He had just rid himself of his undergarment when Brood came up from behind, laying one large hand over his belly and tracing the other up his sternum to his neck. Silchas' breath hitched at the gentle pressure and he let his head fall back against a hard shoulder.

He  enjoyed the feeling of burly muscle against him,  so unlike the lithe bodies of  the Andii he had recently been with .  As was the scratch of rough beard against his cheek when Brood was messily  sucking bruises along his bone-white jawline .  Silchas ground his hip s back , enjoying the grunts he pulled from the man behind him. He teasingly wound a hand between them and fumbled Brood's belt open.

The Azathanai rolled his hips against his buttocks, making him feel the considerable bulge vying for freedom there. “You think you're up for this?” he grunted, biting lightly along the line of shoulder and neck presented to him.

Silchas scoffed,  playfully threatening : “I'm not a  blushing maiden.  If you won't, I will.”

-

This is how he found himself on his hands and knees on the worryingly creaky bed, hands clasping the faded headboard, panting laboriously as thick fingers spread him open. They had found suitable oil among Silchas' belongings and Brood had insisted on taking his time preparing, despite Silchas' protests that he was happy having a decidedly un-gentle night.

Brood - the bastard ~~ - ~~ took his sweet time, too; deliberately seeking out all the spots and movements that made Silchas' keen and writhe.  His fingers were so _big_ , everything about this beast of a man was, and Silchas would deny to his dying breath that he had a fancy for brutally-built people, but he was giddy on the wine and the anticipation, and he couldn't remember the last time he had felt _giddy_ of all things.

A  sound that would have been embarrassing had he been any less riled up escaped him when the fingers were finally withdrawn. He looked over his shoulder to watch Brood coat his erection generously with oil before positioning  himself . A quick look was shared between them, then Brood grabbed him by the thighs, spread his legs farther. Silchas  could feel the callouses of the other's hand on his skin, enjoyed the texture for a moment, before he was rocked forward with force.

He let out a satisfied grunt at the stretch of Brood entering him.  Even slow as it was, the girth took some getting used to. He was breathing heavily, concentrating to  loosen his muscles. Brood sought to aid him in this, murmuring encouragement and slowly stroking along his side, slowing down even more.

Silchas snarled at the treatment and rammed himself back onto the erection,  hissing at the pain yet welcoming it . “ G et on  with it .”

A deep humming sound from Brood that reverberated pleasantly through Silchas' ribcage, then he withdrew his hand and settled it on a slim hip instead. When he was eventually fully seated, Silchas marveled at the fullness, the effort it took just to stay relaxed with this intrusion. It was only just on the pleasant side of too-much.

A pparently his struggle was obvious, as Brood wouldn't _move_ , instead electing to pet his sides soothingly again. Silchas hated it. Hated how he was being treated as if he would fall apart at the slightest bit of roughness. “Move!” he spat, frowning at his pillow. 

Brood had the gall to laugh. “Shh… take your time to get used to this.” He sounded smug, the absolute bastard. Silchas hated the shiver of excitement he felt at the condescension with a fury. Hoped the other hadn't noticed.

He had always resented his noble birth. People were in the habit of treating him differently, how he would always stand apart, not only because of his skin color, but because of his status. Never sure whether people were genuine or hoping for a crumb of influence by associating with one of the Sons of Darkness… He had never borne it well. Unlike Anomander, who was born for nobility, carried himself with the perfection everyone expected and never seemed-

“Ah!” Silchas yelped, as Brood had suddenly pulled back and rammed home, rudely pulling him from his contemplation. Which was very welcome, he could concentrate on the burn and stretch and the impossibe thickness impaling him.

“Too much?” Brood had the gall to ask, most certainly about to pet him again and try to slow down, so Silchas just ground out a heartfelt “Fuck!” and urged the other to continue.

They settled into a slow but hard rhythm, Brood taking care to angle his hips in a way that let him hammer his manhood across that bundle of nerves on every stroke. Silchas was soon wheezing, sweat pooling on his forehead and dripping down his nose.

The pace became all-consuming, meditative. Silchas closed his eyes, entranced by the rocking motion, the pulsing bursts of breath that blew the hair from his face where it didn't cling to sweaty skin. The coarse bedsheet under him rubbed his legs raw, a sensation he had become accustomed to when he and his little band of misfits had fled across the continent of Lether, stealing ill-fitting clothing, running around in the misty wetness of the mountains, listening to Udinaas' prattling… _If you had just eviscerated the Letherii hounding you… had not spent years and years erring through the tundra, maybe you could have been there, helped him, helped all of them-_

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his mind blank once more. Belatedly he felt a fist wind into his hair, then, without warning, the other _pulled_ , forcing his head up and back, the pain exquisite and sharp, grounding.

He needed to get out of his own head, to just feel anchored to the moment instead of ruminating, ruminating, endlessly ruminating…

Silchas took one hand from the headboard and reached toward his own erection, intent on helping things along- only his bed-companion seemed to feel particularly contrary. His wrist was snatched in an iron-clad grip, drawn back from his crotch and pressed to the bed instead. Before Silchas had a chance to object or inquire, his other hand was drawn from the creaky headboard, as well, and equally pinned. Meanwhile the rhythmic ramming and the debauched sounds of slapping skin continued their frenzy. The weight above him shifted, making his breath hitch with the intensity of Brood's mass bearing down on him.

“You will come from this alone,” growled Brood, leaning over his back heavily and puffing hot breath against his ear. “Just like your brother always did.”

Silchas' eyes widened, a bolt of white hot humiliation racing down his spine  when the words registered . A moment of stillness where he was lost for  distress , then he snarled and wound and bucked in an effort to throw Brood off of him. He felt the  eleint blood boil in his veins, the impulse to rip into the other's throat and tear him to pieces overpowering his senses.  He was close to veering, completely losing himself in chaos.

But Brood held on, pressed his face into the cheap mattress and snapping his hips violently into him. Mind reeling, Silchas fought him more, clawing at the sheets and-

He came.  Hard.

With a cry somewhere between a snarl and a sob, he fell over that delicate precipice. And just like that all the fury, the chaos and the fight left him. Leaving only burning humiliation in their wake. Brood pumped his hips  a few times more, then finished with an almost laughably subdued grunt. He eased off of Silchas' back, gracing him with a pat on his shoulders that was  likely  meant to be comforting, but only felt patronizing. Silchas collapsed into the mattress,  carefully hiding his  too-warm  face in the  saggy pillow.

Oppressive silence fell over the dingy room, leaving Silchas with nothing to take his mind off the bitter taste choking him. He wanted to be angry, to rail at the indignity, to veer and kill and forget… but there was nothing left in him. An almost enjoyable stillness overcame him.

The soft sounds of shifting fabric could be heard,  of heavy steps as Brood sought to dress . After a moment, a thick, soft fur was pulled over him – the Warlord's travel cloak. “Don't hide from your grief, Silchas. It pains me to see you this…  addled .”

If he expected a response, Silchas would not deign him with even a word.  _Dignity! Ha! As if he could, as if he had any left, as if he didn't just-_

A heavy sigh, then: “ There is a barrow, in the midst of the Gadrobi hills,  if you leave the city through the east gate …”

“Get out,” Silchas breathed, with feeling. Caladan Brood complied.

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, this thing happened. I have no excuse, but it's 3am and the idea wouldn't leave me, so now there is unnecessary porn of these two. I'll show myself out.


End file.
